


Inside Out (Turn About)

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark fic, Dependency, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Murder, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Nightmares, Nogitsune Stiles, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott knows Stiles. He knows him down to the bone, knows every tick and twitch and smile. They say that when you love someone, they become a part of you. That a piece of them gets locked in your heart for safekeeping. There's a piece of Stiles in Scott. It's anything but safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out (Turn About)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



Scott panted for air, head down, claws out as he faced down Isaac and the twins across the soot-streaked school hall. Water poured down from the overhead sprinklers, soaking everything to the skin, turning char into black paint. The nogitsune sprawled behind him, one hand pressed to Stiles' stomach where Isaac's claws had nearly—

The thought of _nearly_ yanked him back to the people in front of him. Pulling back his lips, Scott bared his teeth and growled, "I said _no_. No killing." 

"Scott—" Isaac had his beta face on, and his claws were still red with blood. On either side of him the twins were more controlled, but their eyes were blue, and he couldn't let them near Stiles or they'd just do it again. "What do you think you're going to do? Lock him up? That didn't work!" 

"We'll find another way." He knew that it was dangerous. Somewhere a fire was still burning, tainting the air with greasy smelling smoke. The school was barely standing, cafeteria gutted, basement collapsed, glass shards everywhere from blown out windows. Stiles' doing. Scott wasn't sure how—it had been the middle of the day, classes rolling on as usual, and then, just chaos, and explosions and screams. 

He hoped no one was dead. Stiles would never forgive himself if he killed even more people. 

"There is no other way!" Ethan roared, fangs descending. He and Ethan crouched, ready to pounce, and Scott braced himself. He was no match for two alphas who'd absorbed the power of their whole pack, but he couldn't give up Stiles. He could _never_ give up Stiles. 

"No—" Rubber squeaked on cement, and Scott heard it as it pushed to its feet. Stiles' heart beat was steady, more than it had ever been before, but it picked up as he moved closer to Scott, wrapping its fist in the back of Scott's soaking t-shirt. It smelled like blood and ashes. "Don't let them kill me—Scott, _please_ —" 

"It's another trick!" Aiden snapped, but Ethan and Isaac were already straightening a little. 

"I don't want to die!" The nogitsune plastered itself to Scott's back. Sour breath ran hot over the back of his neck. 

So softly that it could have been Scott's imagination, he heard, "Close your eyes." 

The twins turned to each other, bones shifting in their faces. Isaac didn't look sure, but something feral was lurking in his expression. Scott saw the second that they put doubt aside, when they decided to take expedience over humanity. 

He closed his eyes. 

Metal tinkled on the linoleum, and then white light flashed so brightly that it burned even though Scott had been ready. He cried out, raising a hand to block it, but someone else's was already there. 

Hot lips pressed against the back of his jaw. "Thanks for the save, buddy. Catch you later." It pushed his shoulder, using his disorientation to whirl him away. When Scott caught his feet a second later, the nogitsune was gone.

* * *

Sleep that night came hard and fast, but it didn't save Scott from snapping out of it when his bed moved. He jerked upward, but a hand pressed against his back, holding him face down easily. Taking a deep breath, he twisted his head to see who it was, but he already knew. The air still smelled like blood and ashes. 

"You saved me," Stiles said. His voice was flat, faintly curious. Not Stiles. Not really. Sometimes Scott had trouble remembering that, though. It—he, _the demon_ was a good actor, and Scott could never look in his best friend's face and see a monster. Stiles hadn't seen a monster in him, even when he deserved it. 

"I saved _him_ ," Scott corrected tiredly. 

"You saved _us_." The hand on Scott's back tightened, fingers digging in. Scott braced himself, but they just dragged down his bare spine, a hard scrape of completely human nails. "We're him, now. It's..." The mattress shifted, and the nogitsune moved its hand. When it spoke again, the cadence had slipped sideways, somewhere closer to the Stiles that Scott knew. "You can't share space rubbing off on each other. You should know. You've been almost as close to him as I am."

Careful to move slow, to stay unthreatening, Scott pushed over onto his side. In the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window, it would have been easy to think it was any other night that Stiles had snuck in. Part of Scott kept expecting him to grin and explain his latest plan, newest idea or adventure, a reason to sneak out and get in trouble. 

But Stiles— _not_ Stiles, why was that so hard to remember?—just sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced, expression quiet. There was a stillness in it that the real Stiles would never have been able to maintain for long. Even the set of Stiles' shoulders was wrong, mature and controlled. Regal. Self-possessed. 

"Why are you here?" Scott finally asked, forcing the question out in a whisper. "I'm not going to work with you. I want _my_ Stiles back." 

"We know." The nogitsune turned its head. A small burn across its temple was still oozing and tender. "He wants you back, too." 

Without thinking, Scott reached out and wrapped his hand around the nogitsune's wrist, opening his heart to let the pain flow into him. It was like turning on a faucet and getting a flood instead. He gritted his teeth, hissing at the sudden rush of paint. Physical, but more than that. Old, old pain, dragging rusty nails through his veins and settling like lead poison in his chest. 

As soon as the veins on Scott's arm started to darken, the nogitsune tensed, and Scott froze, expecting it to lash yank away. Instead it melted, sagging sideways on the bed and catching itself clumsily with the hand Scott was holding. He could feel a tremble run up its arm, muscles twitching weakly from whatever it was feeling.

The flood wasn't stopping. It was a well that didn't seem to have a bottom. Head swimming with it, Scott took as much as he could before he pulled his hand back. "I thought you fed on pain." 

A twitch of the lips, not quite a smile, more Stiles than not. His eyes weren't quite open anymore. "Not my own." 

Scott didn't even give it a second of thought before grabbing Stiles by the arm and pulling him over. He fell with a limp thump, and was easy for Scott to wrap himself around. There wasn't even a struggle. The burn in his veins faded to a soft, buzzing thrum, like a bitter caffeine high. 

"This isn't for you," Scott said firmly, tucking himself up against Stiles' back, fingers twisting in his t-shirt like it would keep the real Stiles close. "This is for him."

One of Stiles' hands settled over his fist. There was blood embedded under the nails, but it was soft where Stiles ran the pads of his fingers over Scott's knuckles. "I know."

* * *

The first time the nogitsune showed up at school, beckoning Scott out the window, Scott ignored it. 

Then it vanished for two weeks, and there was a story of a mass suicide in a town fifty miles away. 

Scott didn't ignore it the second time.

* * *

It started showing up every night. Most of the time, it just sat there and watched Scott watch it, and then it would be gone again. Some nights, it was Stiles—really Stiles, Scott was almost sure of that most of the time. Stiles would slip into bed, and Scott would steal away a little bit of the agony that was always riding him, the darkness that burned. It was a weight on his chest, but he took it anyway. Every time it happened, he spent the night awake on watch, but he never saw the nogitsune leave. One blink and it would be gone. 

It wasn't a solution. Stiles was still a hostage, officially a missing person. But the attacks had stopped. No one had died in a month (it had been a month, right? He thought it had been a month) since the nogitsune had come back that last time. Isaac and the twins started avoiding him— _you smell like it_ , Isaac had said, right before he moved his things back into Derek's empty loft. Allison was basically out of school now, since her father's trial was being arranged downstate. Lydia had gone quiet. She'd only spoken to him once, the day after the fight. 

"You feel like slow death." 

So maybe he was staying away from her as much as she was him. 

But it was okay. It was just until they could find a solution. Until they could be sure that biting Stiles would actually work, and that they wouldn't just end up with a dead Stiles and someone else possessed. 

Just for now.

* * *

The first time Stiles kissed him, Scott wasn't even sure he was there. 

It was late. He was asleep in bed—he thought he was asleep. The days had gotten blurry lately. He couldn't get rid of the rock in his chest, and it only got heavier every time he eased Stiles' pain. It made it hard to breathe sometimes, a callback to his asthma. But he couldn't stop. 

So when Stiles leaned over him, blocking the stars through the window, and put his hand on Scott's cheek, Scott didn't hesitate before drawing the pain out again, swallowing it. He could taste bile and sweat, copper blood on his lips, but he kept drinking it down.

Stiles drew his thumb over Scott's lips. The nail was a little sharp, a little long—the nogitsune didn't bother keeping them trimmed. It scratched, leaving a mark that was slow to heal. "You and me, eh, Scotty boy?" Stiles murmured, the fox shining in his eyes. 

Then he kissed him. 

It wasn't much. Just a kiss, a touch of lips, a sting and the taste of blood where his lip was still bleeding. There wasn't even any tongue. But Scott's heart seized, and his vision curled in on itself, shadows stretching out to swallow the room. The pressure in his chest seemed to swallow him up, until even the shadows faded into nothing, and then he followed. 

Scott came to gasping, drenched with sweat in a cold room. There was no sign of Stiles, not a thing out of place. 

Except. 

His lip was still bleeding.

* * *

Track meets were being held at a neighboring school, since the field still hadn't been repaired from Stiles' rampage. It wouldn't be until the Christmas break; that was when the grant was supposed to come through. Everyone who was on the team was excused from their last class of the day to hitch a bus ride across town. 

Scott was trailing behind on the way to the bus when someone grabbed his arm and yanked him into the boy's bathroom. He didn't question who it was. No one else made the world sharpen back into focus that way. 

Stiles shoved him back against the door, fingers cradling Scott's jaw. Every point of contact turned black and made Scott's head swim. His skin itched, feeling too tight, too warm. "You wouldn't run without me, would you?" he asked lightly. "We're a team. You wouldn't leave the other half of your team behind, would you?"

"You can't run," Scott reminded him. "You're— _Stiles_ could run. You're not him." Right? This wasn't some... new normal, like werewolves had been. It wasn't _actually_ Stiles. It was just a thing using him.

When had he started to forget that?

"I love you." Stiles—the nogitsune— _no, Stiles_ , it had to be Stiles, Scott couldn't keep going on if it wasn't Stiles who said that—leaned in. Their bodies slotted together, one of Stiles' thighs sliding between his. His fingers tapped a rhythm on Scott's chest. "You know that. Right here, where you keep me locked up."

"Don't say that." Scott closed his eyes, but there wasn't any hiding there anymore. He could see everything there. He could see Stiles' hand on the door, see the tip of his tongue as he wet his lips, a glint of metal-sharp teeth that would be gone again when he looked. 

"Why not? It's the truth." The tip of Stiles' nose touched just under his ear. Wet lips trailed a soft kiss across his throat. It left a smear of dirt behind that vanished when Scott opened his eyes. "You know I'm not lying."

"You never lie. That doesn't mean it's the truth." 

Stiles' hand slid under his shirt, warm and callused on tender skin. His fingertips trailed over Scott's hipbone, then down. The button on Scott's fly popped. His zipper rasped. "Trust me a little."

Scott stayed plastered to the door, claws scraping metal while Stiles massaged his dick through his briefs. It barely took any work before he was hard and leaking. Stiles peeled down his underwear just enough to pull out his dick. His long fingers played over it lightly, flirting with the crown, tracing down the shaft in feathery brushes that could barely be called touch. 

"Just you and me," Stiles murmured against Scott's neck. He gave the dick in his palm a practiced twist of the wrist that had sagging back and trusting the door to hold him up. "Who else is going to take care of us?" 

It was wrong. It wasn't really Stiles (wasn't it?) but he couldn't find the voice to do anything but groan. 

When Stiles hit his knees, Scott nearly hit his. The only thing that kept him from dropping to the floor was Stiles' hands on his hips, fingers digging in like claws. Using the focus usually given to a dozen bad essays, Stiles dragged his tongue up Scott's dick from root to crown, ending with a wet kiss at the head that left precome smeared on his mouth.

And then Stiles wrapped his lips around the head of Scott's dick, sliding them down down down, hot and wet and utterly wrong. The ring of Stiles' throat flexed, and then it was like it didn't even matter. Air didn't matter, nothing mattered except that moment when Stiles' nose touched Scott's stomach and wrinkled at the tickle of hair. 

The curve of his cheeks hollowed as he pulled back. Scott panted for air at the tug of suction, the way Stiles' tongue massaged under the head. He swallowed it back down again, and Scott was done for shamefully early. His legs gave way, sending him sprawling on cold tile while Stiles just moved to follow him, throat working as he swallowed. 

It kept on until Scott's dick was soft and too sensitive, and even then Stiles barely moved enough to look up and lick come off his lips. "You okay?" 

All Scott could do was nod and try to remember how to breathe. Blood trickled down his hip where Stiles' nails (claws?) had punched through his skin, and the sting was a pleasant bite next to the liquid feeling in his bones. 

Stiles' hand ran over his thigh, petting him. "That's my boy."

* * *

"Scott?" His mom touched his shoulder as he stared down into his cereal. The morning sun shined through the kitchen windows, but it was a dull sort of illumination, gray and filtered through damp cloud cover. "You look terrible. Maybe you should stay home today." 

Half-heartedly, he tried to shrug off her touch. His claws clinked against the spoon until he curled his fingers to hide them from her. All he wanted was to go back to bed, but that wasn't a choice. His grades were slipping again, and he was losing entire days to a gray fog. He had to take what he could. "I'm fine, Mom. I just didn't sleep too well." 

She ignored him and carded her fingers through his hair. "The Stiles thing?" Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "He'll be okay, honey. Right?" Uncertainty flickered through her eyes. "You know where he is still?" 

"Yeah. I know exactly where he is." Scott made himself smile at her, and tried not to look at the shadow in the corner.

* * *

His first full moon without Stiles, Scott woke up naked in the woods. The nogitsune curled up around him, asleep, chin on his shoulder. 

Their hands were bloody, and Scott had meat in his teeth. 

For the next week, he scoured the papers for missing persons. Nothing ever came up, but he couldn't get rid of the sick feeling of _knowing_.

* * *

One of Scott's legs wrapped around Stiles' shoulders, heel digging into his back, arms stretched overhead to brace against a wall. Rough concrete—brick? Rock? _Something_ –scraped his back raw. He didn't know where they were, or how they got there, or why they were having sex and it didn't _matter_ that his hands were bloody or that the place (alley?) smelled like trash and he could hear traffic and people and he just didn't _care_. Stiles was over him, pressing him down, slick with sweat and come (but they'd just started no they'd been there all day all week _what day was it_ ) and that was all that mattered. 

Stiles bottomed out, panting, cheeks flushed. He rolled his hips like he was getting used to it—

(he was getting used to it, Stiles was a virgin, it wasn't Stiles **it wasn't Stiles** shut up _shut up **shut up**_ ) 

—and then grinned, mouth full of too-sharp teeth. Their mouths fit together in something just to the side of a kiss, a messy, open sliding together that was more about hunger than sex. Scott felt the drain, a dull ache as he filled up (emptied out), a sick twist of too much too fast too full. Stiles' dick worked him open in short, hard thrusts that had Scott's head smacking back into the pavement. 

Orgasm came like it was a barbed hook in his veins, dragging out of him and taking everything along with it. Stiles choked his shout off with a hand to the throat, fingers digging in until there wasn't air left to shout with. Come splattered over Scott's stomach and chest, on the bruises and blood and and and 

"You've got to let me out, Scott," Stiles whispered, rocking in again. Scott's back curled to get his dick away from the too-harsh drag of skin, but Stiles just laughed and someone screamed and

the sky was burned and Scott burned with it and Stiles was still fucking him and he had to hold it together had to keep control couldn't 

The lines of Stiles' face sharpened, and his teeth glinted like steel in the firelight as he slammed into Scott again and screamed, "Let me out!"

* * *

Scott came to in the middle of the woods again, back rubbed raw, head and ass sore. 

Stiles wasn't there. Somehow, that was worse.

* * *

"This has to stop."

Scott blinked and looked up at Kira, Lydia and Allison (Allison? When did she get back?). He hadn't heard them coming up. It could have been the noise of the cafeteria, but probably not. He just couldn't focus. It was hard to think, and every time he tried his thoughts wandered toward the sting of claws on his hips.

"Lunch isn't that bad." 

The girls dumped their bags on the table. There was plenty of room. Scott hadn't seen the twins or Isaac in a while. (Weeks? Months? It couldn't have been that long, right? It was still warm outside.) 

"We're worried about you." Kira propped her chin up on her hands and stared at him with big eyes. She was better at it than Allison, who was too sharp, or Lydia, who was sitting sideways and looking everywhere but him. "You've been acting weird. What's wrong?"

He shrugged and looked back down at his applesauce. Why did he get applesauce? He hated it. It was Stiles who liked applesauce. "I'm fine." 

Lydia crossed her legs in a way that turned her toward him. "Trouble sleeping, Scott?" she asked sweetly. "Bad dreams?" Her tongue clicked against her teeth. "Insomnia? Nothing to worry about, I'm sure."

"Isaac says that you smell like Stiles all the time." A tremble ran through Allison, playing out in her heartbeat. Bitter fear clung to her like the stench of cordite. (Stiles had taught him that word when they were twelve and were going to grow up to be private eyes.) "I tried to call last night, but you hung up on me." 

Applesauce slid off his spoon, plopping back down into its little container. He hadn't hung up on her, but he couldn't say Stiles had. None of them could know where Stiles was, or they might kill him. "I didn't want to talk. That's all. I'm fine." 

"Stiles wouldn't—"

Rage flared like wind touching a campfire. Vision bled to red and shadows. His palms slammed down on the table, making his tray jump, claws punching holes in the aluminum. "I said I'm fine!" Scott roared. 

They jumped. The whole cafeteria went quiet. 

Carefully, Allison reached out and covered his hands, hiding his claws. "Your eyes are red," she whispered. Even at that, it sounded too loud in the dead air. 

Shaking his head, Scott shoved his tray away, grabbed his bag and sprinted for the door.

* * *

Winter dry grass crunched under his feet as Scott approached the house, with its brightly painted siding and cheerful garden. It looked like the kind of place that should have had toys scattered around the yard, and maybe a puppy in the back, a happy family making happy memories. Instead it was a crude prison. Shards of glass littered the lawn all the way to the door, great jagged shards and bear traps that gaped wide, waiting for an unsuspecting foot. Someone didn't want him near the house. 

He couldn't imagine why, though. It was a dead place. Not empty. Scott could tell that it was just gone, like the soul had been sucked out of it. No cars passed on the street. He couldn't hear any children, or smell people cooking. The place was sterile and cold and empty and he hated it more than he'd ever hated anything in his life. Why bother protecting something like that?

(Was he dreaming? It didn't feel real, but nothing did anymore. It hadn't for a long time.)

As he got closer to the house, Scott saw someone sitting with their back pressed to the window pane next to the door, a slightly lighter shadow in a dark room, filmy through sheer curtains. Then the figure turned, orange eyes catching the sunlight like fire. 

"Hey, Scott," Stiles greeted quietly. The window between them didn't muffle his voice at all; it might as well not have been there. He pressed his hand to the window pane, long fingers splayed out. "Help a guy out?" 

Scott walked all the way to the window, stepping around the traps. "How did you get in there?" he asked, touching his hand to Stiles'. The veins on the back of it were thick black and pulsing in time with a heartbeat that wasn't his. 

"I've always been in here. I was just looking for the door. But it's locked." With his other hand, Stiles rapped on the glass. It didn't shiver, didn't make a sound. "Pretty soon, I might have to just break myself out."

The way he said it settled hard in Scott's stomach. "What happens then?" When he stretched out his fingers, the tips of his claws scratched the glass. He didn't even remember changing them. 

Stiles shrugged. His fingers tapped again, with the same lack of effect. "I guess I'd have to leave."

"But—" Air started to get thin. Scott's heart tightened. "You can't leave!" 

Eyebrows arched, Stiles shrugged again. "I can't stay locked up forever, can I?" 

"But you can't leave me!" The hard ball in Scott's stomach rose like panic, wrapping iron bars around his chest. He slammed his fist against the glass, then again when nothing happened . "Take me with you. You said—you said I can't go without you. You don't get to go without me. Take me with you!" 

"If you want to come, you have to open the door for me, Scotty." Stiles stood beyond the glass inside the house, barefoot, muddy to the ankles. But he smiled like Scott was the only thing in the world, waiting patiently. And that was—good. It was good, because Stiles was the only thing in Scott's world anymore. "You have to let me out. Open the door." 

The door. Scott turned to it. 

Like the rest of the yard, it was littered with glass. No traps, but chunks of glass so thick that the cement underneath was barely visible. He took a step, feeling the crack and shatter, knowing that it was slicing through his shoes. It hurt, but everything hurt. What was physical pain anymore?

"Let me out, Scott." Stiles rapped at the window—no, it was a door now, he could see Stiles through the little pane of glass, pounding at it, not able to make a dent. The whole house was nothing but doors, a thousand ways in and no ways out.

Scott's hand ran down the edge of the door. He could barely feel it when his blackened claws carved long curls of paint and wood free. Glass was piled up, slicing into his feet, his hands, pooling blood on the cement, and he didn't care. There was nothing to feel. Everything that mattered was inside. _Stiles_ was inside, trapped. Alone. They were never supposed to be alone. 

"Scott! Scott, let me out! Don't make me leave you—" 

His claws sank into the door. With a screech of tearing hinges and the crunch of wood, Scott ripped the thing open, then stood panting in the gaping hole where it had been. The knot of wrongness in his stomach turned, and then tightened into a hollow ache of hunger. As he watched, the lines of black crawling underneath his skin sank in and dissipated. He could still feel it, the soft burn, but it wasn't so concentrated. It wasn't borrowed or stolen. It was his now. 

Stiles stepped through the wreckage, curling his hand around the back of Scott's neck to pull him into a quick kiss before saying, "We knew you wouldn't let him go."

* * *

Scott's eyes opened. Stiles watched from the edge of the bed. Their fingers were laced together loosely, claws scraping where they brushed. 

When he saw Scott wake up, Stiles smiled a steel smile and said, "Hungry?"


End file.
